The mountain lion.
It’s right there at the tree line, maybe fifty yards from the house. Massive and tawny and terrifyingly beautiful in the morning light. Just... standing there. Watching us through the window like we’re the most interesting thing it’s seen in days.
Which we probably are.
The two idiots who’ve been storing frozen meat under the northern eaves like a wildlife buffet.
And it can definitely see us. The sun’s still too low on the horizon. Wrong angle for the outer portion of the window to act like a mirror.
Which means from the cougar’s perspective, we’re just two tasty humans in a cozy kitchen, probably looking like the breakfast special.
“They don’t hunt in the day,” I whisper, more to myself than to Gregory. Some kind of desperate mantra. “Mountain lions are crepuscular. Dawn and dusk hunters. They don’t hunt in daylight. They don’t--”
“This onedoes,” Gregory says grimly.
As if to prove his point, the cougar takes three deliberate steps toward the house.
My heart rate spikes so fast I can hear it in my ears.
This is bad.
Really, really bad.
We have to go on that roof today.
We have to clear the satellite dish.
We have to call for rescue.
And there’s a two-hundred-pound cat circling our house like we’re on the menu.
Which we are, I suppose.
Then, just as suddenly as it appeared, the mountain lion turns and lopes back into the tree line, disappearing into the forest like it was never there.
Neither of us moves for a long time.
“Well,” I say finally, voice shaking just slightly, “that’s not ominous at all.”
Gregory pulls me against his chest, one hand sliding into my hair, the other wrapped tightly around my waist. His heart is hammering as hard as mine.
“Gregory, how...” I swallow loudly. “We have... we have to clear that dish. Get on the roof. But that thing...” I gesture vaguely toward where the cougar disappeared. “It’s been circling for what could be days now... the blizzard would have hidden the tracks. And it probably really wants to eat our faces off. You know, because we’re fresh, unfrozen meat?”
“I know.” His arms tighten. “But we have to do this. There’s no rescue unless we do this.”
Would that be so bad?
But I just nod against his chest and let him hold me.
“Eat your oatmeal,” he murmurs against my ear. “We’ve got a satellite dish to dig out and a predator to avoid and a future to figure out.”
No pressure or anything.
19
Gregory
I’m staring at the firewood stack by the hearth.
